Pauline McLynn: The night I made a f***ing show of myself

So, the Golden Globes was a rowdy affair. It always is, it seems: the champagne flows and it’s generally encouraged as a relaxed event at which the “stars” let their well-quiffed hair down.

I have been at such ceremonies over the years. It’s like a strange showbiz blood sport: ply everyone with drink and film the consequences. This year there was a lot of talk about various people dropping F-bombs. It got me thinking about how once-frowned-upon words can come to permeate our speech and even lose some of their shock value. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking on my part.

Once upon a time (in a galaxy far away) I played Mrs Doyle in Father Ted. As it happens, my audition piece was a bit of the episode where Mrs Doyle talks about all the bad language in a visiting novelist's books. Although scandalised by it, she has clearly devoured every word ever written by this woman.

It's the "bad F-word" that concerns Mrs Doyle most, although she has no problem saying "feck", the milder F-word that the Irish have given to the world (a fact that gives me a nice, fuzzy feeling). I'd like to perpetuate the notion here (true or otherwise) that during the lifetime of Father Ted, "feck" was accepted by the Oxford English Dictionary.

I have room for both variants of the F-word in my life. Sometimes I don’t even notice I am using one or the other a lot during the day. I very rarely mean them to give offence; my usage is lazy rather than anything else. However, there have been occasions, when I am on autopilot, when the habit can be harder for others to understand or forgive.

Important night ruined

Some years ago, I was invited to a very fancy dinner at the Dublin residence of a top official of another country. (I will not name the country lest it cause an international incident.) The occasion was to honour a late friend and in-law and was one of the most important nights of her life. And I all but ruined it.

I’ll give the mitigating circumstances, although they are not excuses. I was in a bit of a life meltdown at the time. On the day itself, I had lunched too well with another old friend, and we ended by repeatedly toasting a recently deceased pal who had left this life way too soon.

By the time I was to change and leave for dinner, I was (I thought) invincible. And very, very drunk. My poor husband tried to talk me out of going, but I was certain that I was in the best form of my life and nothing could stop me.

Apparently I was quite interesting for about 12 minutes, as I asked good questions. Then the wheels came off. I peppered every sentence with the (bad) F-word.

Not his first language

I know I meant it as an exclamation, an expression of astonishment at new things learned, but it must be stressed that English, and particularly my brand of it that night, was not the first language of our host, and he was bemused.

For instance, when he told me his age – he looked much younger – my response was “F*** off! No way.” Of course, everyone else at the table was mortified by my behaviour, for our host, for themselves and for me. And on it went.

There are other examples of inappropriate behaviour on my part that night, but I shiver to remember them. They are the stuff of another confession.

I was persuaded home after dessert and I hear things settled down nicely after that, or at least as much as they could after Storm Pauline.

The host did inquire after my use of the F-word, saying that he had always thought it to be derogatory. My comrades gamely came to my defence (undeserved), saying I had not meant it as such and explaining that it can be used in other ways. To this day, I can never thank him enough for graciously taking that on board.

When it came time for the party to leave, our host saw everyone to the front door and, with a tremendous twinkle in his eye, said: “Thank you all for coming. Good night and now . . . f*** off.” With a beaming smile he waved them on their way.

I still have nightmares about that night.

(F***.)